Wicked Man
by fallen-wolfborn
Summary: The Dragonborn defeated Alduin as he was fated, but even he could not handle the power of the Worldeater. Sealed into the statue of a hound by Hircine, he awakens to a very different age. An age of oppression and war. An age of dragons. However, is he not Dovahkiin, the ultimate dragonslayer? A legend from a forgotten world returns in glory and the ground will quake as he passes.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own only my plot and my characters. Chances are, if any reader recognises anything, it's not mine or part of the "Hero with 1000 Faces" theory. I am but a humble (and very poor) language student and sometime fanfic writer, so there's not much to sue me for.**

**To my readers past and present, I am so sorry it has taken me this long to give you a new write of a fic which received a surprising amount of attention, despite an obvious lack of lore knowledge and which was actually a plot bunny conceived of one very quiet Christmas day. Within two hours I had two chapters written. Crazy stuff.**

**This is my new fic. Same premise, but many things have changed. The most obvious thing will be that Harald Grim-Cairn is no more. I have read much and learned much over the last year and most fics of this type have an all-conquering Nord as the protagonist. I like Nords a lot, my third favourite race is Nord. I like those fics and give all my respect and hope to their writers, but I want to try something a little different.**

**I hope you enjoy and that the wait was worth it.**

"**Fangs of the Forgotten World" is over.**

**Welcome to "Wicked Man".**

"Normal speech"

'_Thoughts'_

"**Shouting"**

"_**Daedric Speech"**_

Chapter 1

Nothing feels quite like dragon fire.

"**YOL TOOR SHUL!" **

"**Fo Krah Diin!"**

Any man may burn a hand or foot upon the hearth with enough mead in his insides and addling his brain, but that is not what dragon fire is. It is hot, searing blue and red agony given a physical form. The only worse physical pain to a mortal man is that of ingesting hellfire, which doesn't even exist upon the world of Mundus or so the priesthood says. Then again, until the black monstrous form of Alduin the World-Eater, son of Akatosh incinerated Helgen, killing off around four in five of the townsfolk and bringing a halt to a civil war that had lasted for a solid twenty-five years, no-one believed in the continued existence of dragons either.

The heat boils away the moisture on the skin long before it hits it. The air around the fireball combusts itself, independently of the ignited flame in the dragon's gut and lungs, because of the simple sheer power of the heat being expelled by the outwards breath of the Thu'um. The flames do not lick or burn as normal fire does, rather it devours as the dragon does, without mercy, without compassion, without care. It is the deadliest of the natural weapons carried by any reptilian creature known to the Synod, although that is understandable given the teeth and monstrous size.

'_As the beast knew only hunger, so did its flame, though cunning by their very nature were the hunger and the beast.'_ The Dragonborn's frost breath chilled the conflagration from the belly and jaws of the firstborn of Akatosh, giving a few precious seconds of respite. He knew he wouldn't be able to use his Thu'um again so soon, so he lashed out with the Akaviri blade in his right hand, catching the Worldeater on his scaled snout and drawing a little more blood from the newest cut made. His one reward was roar of pain and furious, unquenchable anger. It was the ninth such slice made by Dragonbane.

Ducking down onto his front to avoid the bite which would have crushed armour, pierced skin, shattered bone and tasted blood, he drove the razor sharp sword upwards with a mighty cry and powerful swing, cutting into the lower jaw, drawing a slightly louder shriek. Alduin then did something unexpected, slamming his jaw and neck against the Dragonborn and throwing the heavily breathing and battered Redguard back onto the ground some feet away. Superior training under Karliah and Brynjolf enabled him to roll away to the left to avoid the lunge by the infuriated monster which could have engulfed him whole.

"**Geh pahlokaal joor ! Yes arrogant mortal! Gahvon dir ahrk nahkip dii suleyk! Yield, die and feed my power! Iliis Dovahkiin ahrk motaas us zey! Hide Dragonborn and cower before me!"**

The Dovahkiin snorted, derision clear in his anger. **"Pahlokaal nivahriin dovah. Kiir dreh ni faas hi, fahvos fund Zu'u faas hi? Arrogant cowardly dragon. Children do not fear you so why should I fear you?"**

"**YOL TOOR SHUL!"**

The snort of anger was his own only warning before he had to run to avoid the roiling inferno and roar that belched from the fanged maw that Alduin had as a mouth. It was only the combination of a five year stretch as a squire in the Order of the Candle scouting throughout the Alik'r Desert, another three spent as a tomb robber amongst the ancient Dwemer cities and the five years proud service in the war against the Aldmeri degenerates as a messenger and scout that allowed him to outrun the flames of the Worldeater's wrath. The fire died off and the Dragonborn turned to face the enemy.

Dropping Dragonbane to the earth he jumped up onto Alduin's snout, surprising and confusing the Destroyer and himself as he ran forward with the respective ever-changing gleams of a summoned sword and ice spike in his right and left hands. The spear-like shard of solid ice punctured the eye of the monstrous black dragon as the blade cut the other, completely blinding the massive reptile who bellowed in the worst pain that the Dragonborn had heard since the death of the Thalmor interrogator unfortunate enough to cross his path in Northwatch Keep. That particular kill was something that brought a smile to his face.

The Firstborn of Akatosh whipped his neck to and fro in a frothing level of anger and pain that few mortals can understand or could survive, nor would many want to for that matter. The Dragonborn was sent flying to the ground again for his trouble, quickly rolling backwards with all of Nocturnal's luck to grab the hilt of Dragonbane and run forward with a shrill battle cry in true Redguard fashion. It was a cry that had shattered the Aldmeri Dominion at Stros M'Kai, Hegathe and Sentinel. It was a cry that had defeated Mannimarco, the Camoran Usurper, the Hiradirge and Tiber Septim himself. It had no words or ulterior meaning, but the sound struck fear wherever it was heard, shouted by a Redguard with the want for death, butchery and slaughter.

From the Dragonborn's mouth came the almighty Thu'um, **"SUH GRAH DUN!"** imparting the speed of the very winds of Kynareth to his strikes which came in a faster blur than even the insane speed taught by Amren, Athis, Burguk, Delphine and any number of other swordmasters and warriors the Dragonborn had trained under in the eighteen months since his return to Skyrim. The cuts appeared deeper and quicker on the dragon's head than ever before, the fields of Sovngarde beginning to run slick with the blood of the Worldeater. The Dragonborn stabbed down, cutting through Alduin's lower jaw, through black armoured hide, skin, muscle and thick bone with a satisfied grunt.

The Worldeater recoiled with force, blinded and badly cut, angered beyond any natural belief. It was the opportunity the dragon needed, in his overdeveloped and arrogant mind at least. The serious wound was instantly cauterised as the sudden blazing heat of all stored fire in the throat and belly of the King of Dragons was forced out with a resounding, gloating, victorious shout.

"**YOL TOOR SHUL!" **

The Dragonborn stood before Alduin's conflagration, as it burned and charred his skin and hair, creating terrible pain... and he persevered as he had every time a dragon had scorched him with their flame over the past year and a half. The tall Redguard stabbed forward with Dragonbane a final time and pierced the Old God's skull through the bleeding left eye socket. The enchanted blade shimmered a little brighter as the lifeblood of the Worldeater decorated and anointed it. The massive black form of Alduin crashed to the ground with a booming noise that shook the earth, a last gasp leaving the titanic reptile's lungs as he died.

The Dragonborn dropped to his knees, utterly exhausted and more than a little elated. He began to laugh happily as he felt onto his back, legs buckling beneath him as the mists of Sovngarde cleared. The battle had been long, and Alduin had been unsurprisingly resilient to his blows, despite the inherent nature of Dragonbane in relation to the dovah. He stared up at the sky as Alduin's ancient soul began to flow into the void beyond, very different to the normal absorption that took place. Or so he thought for a moment. The vortex above him seemed to form the shape of his Great Enemy in immaculate detail, the ethereal blue becoming an angry orange and red which had the audacity to roar and dive at him. He could not move as the spectre struck his body, causing him to shriek in agony as the soul of the greatest dragon ploughed into his body with the force of a giant's hammer.

Not even after watching Hermaeus Mora strike down Miraak with all possible contempt and consuming the souls of some twenty dovah including those the Devourer had stolen from him, had the Dragonborn felt such a surge of power and fury and pain. Every piece and particle of his body felt as if it was being charged with lightning. The only comparable feeling was the Eye of Magnus; and was as powerful as to change the actual weather pattern of an entire Hold capital, albeit it was Winterhold, and unleash close to a dozen half-formed wraith spirits which were sentient enough to attack of their own volition. It hurt like nothing else, but brought with it a rush that quickly felt at home. Very soon, his brain couldn't take it, and he collapsed to the earth, unconscious.

As he lapsed into darkness the outer planes of Oblivion and Aetherius were in uproar. Akatosh looked upon his eldest son's decayed skeletal body and wept tears of anguish and sorrow, furiously roaring for the son that could and should have been; whose soul now was now at the mercy of a bloodied hunter, albeit one who had served himself in the past. Kynareth and Talos smiled as their champion put an end to the terrorizing of their people at the hands of the Worldeater and his winged armies, in spite of their patriarch's suffering. Arkay felt a great deal more at ease in his own skin, as it were, now that the Worldeater no longer plagued Lorkhan's realm, or Shor as his people knew him.

The Daedra laughed, all had dealings with the Dovahkiin at some point or another and they had had a lot of fun watching his progress, especially the Princes of Debauchery and Madness, Sanguine and Sheogorath. All were happy, save Mephala. She was livid, insulted and grudgingly, reluctantly impressed. The Dovahkiin had taken up her precious Ebony Blade, her holy totem of Lies and Deceit and then abandoned it in a chest in his house at Vlindrel Hall, with his Housecarl Argis the Bulwark to watch over it. She had whispered to him to kill that pathetic mortal friend of his, Lydia to gain power beyond his imagining and he ignored it with impunity and pride.

She hated those who took the high ground more than anyone, even that terrible flirt Sanguine. It wasn't even as if he was a priest of Arkay or some other self-righteous dolt. He had bashed an old man's brains in to assuage the disgusting creature Molag Bal. He had eaten the flesh of a priest to gain that revolting Namira's favour. The worst was hiring that mage and then giving him to that traitorous thieving bitch Boethiah as a sacrifice. He was an utter hypocrite of the highest order. She knew the stupid bird Nocturnal were laughing at her behind her back, and it was only a matter of time until Hermaeus Mora found out, nosy tentacled busy-body as he was. She didn't like this feeling of rejection and humiliation, from a blasted mortal no less! In her rage, Mephala did not see that the Dragonborn, the Slayer of Alduin, was already passing from the world.

The soul of a mortal man, even one as great as the Dragonborn, was not meant to sustain the power or spirit of a beast such as Alduin, an Old God, and the Firstborn of Akatosh. Should it be allowed to continue as it was; the dovah sil of such immense strength would either crush or overthrow the spirit of the Dragonborn, either killing his body outright or more dangerously, possibly giving a mortal vessel for the Worldeater on Nirn. Watchful Hircine was the only one who picked up on this, and he was annoyed by this turn of events. The Dragonborn was less his champion, than a minor avatar of his due to his wolf blood. He may not be able to claim him for his Hunting Grounds, the withered corpse-god Shor had the first choice that feast, but should gain the soul of Alduin the Destroyer himself... that would be a Wild Hunt for the eons of Men, Mer, Aedra and Daedra.

The Great Stag knew that his fellow Princes would lose interest soon and the Dragonborn could not survive on the will of the Hunter alone. He made the decision, as much for future gain as for current prestige, to help the Dragonborn in the best way thinkable. Hircine calcified him into the stone statue of a great hound, which he had his follower Aela place upon the peak of a great mountain beside the desiccated skeleton of his greatest enemy for the centuries that would have to be until Alduin's power could be absorbed, under the guise of a grave marker which the Companions would mourn at for the next millennia or so. The Daedric Prince, for all his power, could not foresee what his instinctive avarice at the thought of a future kill would wreak upon the world.

X-X-X-X-DOVAHKIIN-X-X-X-X

_Ages passed as they are wont to do, the landscape shifted and changed, whether by nature or by design. The world warmed and chilled a little, bringing heat to the shores of frozen Atmora and ice floes to the shores of the Summerset Isles, Valenwood, Black Marsh and Elsweyr. The titanic shifting of forces beneath the surface of Nirn created a cataclysmic event, which both created and destroyed in equal measure, though the sapient races of Mer, Men and Beastfolk certainly saw more of the destruction than the creation which was on a geographic scale. The first of the 'victims' of the tremors was the Imperial City itself, which was drowned beneath a wave which swept up the River Niben and smashed the cities of Leyawiin and Bravil to timbers._

_Thousands of years after the distant green summers enjoyed by Ysgramor and his own, Men began to return to the lands of their ancestors' birth. Men survived in the northern lands as they had always done, as much of the old nations of Skyrim, High Rock and to a lesser extent Hammerfell became submerged over the course of time, causing mass migrations across the northern ocean. So it was until the new wave of settlers came south via the island of Par Vollen, once called Solstheim, and by way the land bridge over the Anderfels Mountains which dominate what was Hammerfell. _

_The bigotry sparked in the lands of Men by Ulfric Stormcloak's failed rebellion drove the Altmer, Bosmer and Dunmer into the arms of the Aldmeri Dominion where they eventually became a single people, united by heritage and by blood, and their magic granted them a lifespan similar to immortality. The strength of the magic grew to the reckoning of the mages of old, beyond the visions of the Thalmor in all their failed jingoism and false talk of superior breed, who lay shattered by military and political defeats at the hands of Skyrim, Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, and Black Marsh. Their arrogance paved the way for their downfall at the hands of those they once tried to subjugate. _

_The lower end of the world chilled for a time, and those nations south of former Cyrodiil became surrounded and isolated by the ice and the chill. The Altmer fled the Summerset Isles for the warmer lands of Thedas, where they founded a powerful kingdom. The lands of Elvhenan, as they came to be known, grew to occupy much of the new continent of Thedas, which comprises all lands south of the Anderfels Mountains, a mighty range which rose from the earth in northern Hammerfell, specifically part of what were Cyrodiil and Morrowind. _

_The Dwemer returned, changed beyond recognition in body and with no memory of what their race had accomplished in the distant past. The clockwork cities of old were eventually stripped bare, destroyed or submerged by tremors in Nirn or sealed away from sight and memory by increasingly superstitious locals, regardless of race. The Dwarves, as they now called themselves with pride, built an empire that spanned a continent beneath the stone of Thedas, though they still found little in the way of use for the favours of the gods, choosing instead to revere the accomplishments of their own people. _

_The Orsimer regained favour with their patron the Daedric Prince Malacath, who sent them to the far northern reaches beyond Atmora in their millions, changed in much the same way as the Chimer had in order to become the Dunmer or as they themselves had done in the aftermath of the death of Trinimac at the hands of Boethiah. However, it can be said that physically the changes were vastly more significant and impressive this time. The Orcs grew in physical stature, losing the green tone to their skin and generally becoming something that was no longer Mer. They called themselves Kossith and became powerful on the realm of Nirn. In a strange turn of events though, they rejected Malacath and founded their own ideology, more in line with the elusive Jyggalag than the Patron of the Sworn Oath and Bloody Curse. They are now Qunari, followers of the Qun. _

_The Khajiit and Argonians fled to across the eastern sea, beyond the reach of bigoted human lords who sought to drive them out anyway. They avoided the sight of Elsweyr and Black Marsh becoming frozen wastes as part of the Sunless Lands, which would have destroyed them as a people as it did the Altmer and the Bosmer. To those who live there in the present day and age in what remains of Akavir, it is home, where they are unbothered by the bigoted lords of Men and Mer so despised in memory and in some instances, song and dance. The Beastfolk are largely forgotten in the current day and age, though some customs and language persist in memory, even if the source is forgotten, which is the way they would probably like it if they had any inkling of what was happening in their ancestral lands._

_Though magic grew stronger as an ephemeral force, the ever-unpleasant fortunes of mages took a turn for the absolute worst. The Daedric Prince Vaermina, the Dreamweaver vanished for a few centuries and when she returned it was with wrath. She sundered the veil between Oblivion and Nirn, seeking to increase his own sphere of power. This connected mages to Oblivion in a way never seen before exposing them to the corruptive energies that Vaermina radiates, and their darker sides became manifest as what would quickly become known as demons. This would prove to have a catastrophic effect on the pantheons in a way none could have predicted._

_Belief in both Aedra and Daedra fell away in civilised parts of the world, the people becoming embittered by the acts of the Daedra and the inaction of the Aedra. Most of the races of Men were eventually converted to the worship of a single deity known as the Maker, who had surprised the two pantheons and their followers by gaining strength inordinately quickly. He swept aside all opposition under the banner of His Bride, the Prophetess Andraste, who was an inordinately powerful mage from the city of Denerim._

_The origins of this figure are hidden by time or the actions of zealous acolytes. In some small parts of the world, worship of the Old Gods persists. They are not to be confused with the gigantic dragons who came to be worshipped again by some humans and elves and who later became Archdemons. The wars that followed the rise of the Maker and the subsequent destruction of Elvhenan and later the Dales angered many of the Aedra and Daedra, whom the elves had been worshipping under various names and guises for at least two thousand years. _

_The dragons dwindled after the death of their leader Alduin, but what occurred was not easily forseen by any augur or seer. Many had died at the hands of the Dragonborn and his allies. Those who did not either fled to the side of Paarthurnax, who sat at the top of The Throat of the World, or went underground and went into a catatonia-like deep sleep. A handful of dovah remained above ground and was worshipped by some of the races of Men. The Chantry claims that they were banished underground by the Maker for taking away worshippers from him. This is however, untrue. They simply retreated underground as the others had a few millennia before._

_The Falmer sometimes came across these sleeping dragons and tried to domesticate them, but failed hilariously. Until the severely weakened Daedric Princes__ Namira__ and Peyrite formed an unholy pact. The Falmer became infected with a horrific, corrupting disease the humans later called the Taint. They changed and twisted into even more vile creatures that eventually subdued a mighty dragon and corrupted it as well. At the same time, some ambitious mages attempted to gain access to a part of the Fade that couldn't be accessed by mortals, called the Golden Palace. The Maker threw them out of the Fade into the pits of the Falmer, who turned them into the first Darkspawn. They in turn corrupted and spread underground, reaching the empire of the Dwarves who fought them with the grim determination and stubbornness that defined them as a race. _

_Eventually men and women of the Anderfels sacrificed their lives to become Grey Wardens, who took a little of the taint into themselves, shocking and amusing the Daedra, to gain an awareness of the Darkspawn that in the end allowed them to destroy the Archdemon and drive the Darkspawn back underground. This happened another three times, each more destructive than the last. Empires rose and fell, plague and famine swept across the land and wars killed millions, but through all this the Dovahkiin slept on, his legend nigh but forgotten and the hound statue that contained him brought to a gilded prison in the middle of a lake, where a young mage who would change the fate of the world, but not in the way she could have, was being led through a cellar by her best friend and his new girlfriend. Ten thousand years had passed and the time was ripe for the beginning of a new story._

_This is not the story of the Warden who saved Ferelden, who cast down the Archdemon Urthemiel and saved Thedas from utter annihilation. This is not the story of the Hawke who took flight and brought the Chantry and their imprisoned Mages to the edge of war not seen since the fall of Tevinter. This story is the return of a legend to the world and the return of a hero, the return of the world long forgotten to the world of today. The rise of old ideas and older gods after millennia of decline and the fall of a usurper who brought death and misery to untold millions. _

_In their tongue he was Dovahkiin, the Man with the Soul of the Dragon, the Man born to kill dragons. On the eve of the Dragon Age, let his name come forth to our tongues, for he is Dragonborn. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age (Bioware) or the Elder Scrolls series (Bethesda). My characters are mine. **

**A/N: The amount of support for this story is staggering. Simply amazing. Thank you to all reviewers, those who made this a favourite and those who followed it. Your outpouring of love makes me inordinately happy and determined to improve and write more. Thank you for that. All reviews will be answered by PM.**

**Enjoy this next chapter, for your viewing pleasure.**

**Fallen-wolfborn**

"Normal speech"

'_Thoughts'_

"**Shouting"**

"_**Daedric Speech"**_

Chapter 2

Nothing stings the soul like a powerful coincidence.

Yseabal Amell was a newly harrowed mage of the Ferelden Tower of Mages in Lake Calenhad. She had been indoctrinated as all mages of the Circle of Magi were in control, suspicion and hatred of her own not insubstantial gifts in magic. She defeated and avoided demons in the Fade before her Harrowing and was, by her own admission, ambivalent towards her powers. On one hand she could light a good sized fire for warmth in the winter, on the other she could have her body taken over by a wrath demon if she got too angry or a lust demon if she got too attracted etcetera... It was an irritating state of affairs, not that she didn't doubt the veracity of the templars' claims and put hope upon hope that Irving would back her corner should she get in trouble.

She was fairly talented, but she knew there was nothing special about her power. This was why it was strange to her that tonight, of all nights; she would encounter something that fitted snugly into her definitions of interesting and dangerous. It was a power source, not unlike the feeling of lyrium in the Fade, but with more ... bite to it. It was a mildly more oppressive feeling, as if she shouldn't be near it, but was drawn in by its fervent calling anyway. Jowan and Lily were understandably jumpy about touching anything in the rooms but something told her that the large dog statue held something of great importance and power.

"Come on Yseabal, my phylactery should be right through here somewhere. How are we going to get through there?" Yseabal turned away from the ancient statue for a moment and towards the bookcase obstructing their path. She scratched her head, looking at Jowan who was nearly as intrigued as she was by the stone hound. The bookcase was a sturdy structure, probably built in the previous Age by the sheer amount of dust on the shelves and the number of Tevinter books she could only recognise by the sigil on the binding. She would have liked to read them for a few hours but time was not only of the essence but essential to her continued existence. This was why her next statement worried her more than the others.

"Well I'm stumped. Anyone got an idea?"

'_The statue.' _Yseabal jumped, not that either of her companions noticed being so occupied with the bookcase. _'Use the statue, mageling.'_

Yseabal, without really knowing why but knowing it sounded like a very bad idea, turned back to the stone hound. It looked old, very old. The designs carved on it looked different from anything she had seen before. It wasn't Tevinter, no matter what the plaque under it said. She knew some ancient Tevinter and that was not was not what the scratched writing on the forehead was. It wasn't Anders, Qunari or Orlesian. I didn't resemble any Elven script she had ever seen. It looked almost like... claw marks, but strangely she knew that it was a language and a written one at that. She moved her thumb across the marks and started hearing a pounding noise in her ears.

"Is that..." It was beautiful, hypnotic and sounded like "... a heart?!" Yseabal's shout made Lily shriek in surprise and not an inconsiderable amount of fright. Jowan jumped, startled and staring at his long time friend, who was shaking as if physically shocked, her hair on end. A few small blue sparks leapt up her arms and into the carvings on the head of the hound.

"Yseabal, what are you doing? Don't touch the statues!" Yseabal jumped back as she started to feel the previously cold stone get warm under hand. The candles suddenly flickered as the statue started to glow red, then white hot. "By the Maker, what have you done?!"

An inhuman howl echoed throughout the basement as the statue started to expand and crack, hairline fractures appeared with increasing speed and frequency. Blue and green vapour started to pour off the statue as the stone splintered. A humanoid shape was visible, and so were the outlines of armour pauldrons. The howl turned into a human scream as the upright human fell to his knee, dripping with sweat. Yseabal fell backwards onto her rear, bringing her down to eye level with the kneeling man. A loud voice seemed to reverberate around the room.

"**DAAL! GOVEY! STIN! VALOKEIN WAH LEIN DOVAHKIIN!"** **"Return! Restore! Freedom! Welcome to the world Dragonborn!"**

"W-What are you?" The man raised his soaking head, completely void of hair, with a vicious snarl on his face. His skin was dark like the natives of Rivain or maybe Antiva and his eyes a shocking blue unlike anything she had ever seen. They seemed to have slits for pupils and be leaking a kind of blue smoke similar to the vapour that had come from what she could now see had been his prison. His eyes softened slightly once they locked with her brown eyes, which were wide with surprise and fear. He exhaled suddenly and inhaled with some force, the blue smoke seemingly to flow back into his eyes which he shut quickly. When he opened them, the slits were gone and replaced with normal pupils, but the blue colour remained the same.

The armour consisted of a long padded chainmail coat, but it was black as the Fade's skyline and was trimmed in red material she didn't recognise. Underneath that she could she what looked like a thick linen shirt of a dark green variety and on his legs were leather breeches she would be more used to seeing on the blacksmith who made deliveries of nails and tools to the Tranquil. At his side was a curved blade, unsheathed which seemed to shimmer a little. Her eyes went back to his as he leaned forward a little and placed his hands on her shoulders, drawing an involuntary gasp from her which he seemed to ignore. Then he spoke. His accent was strange and came forth in ragged, painstakingly drawn breaths, as if he had been dragged from the lake, near drowned and his voice was deep in timbre, a pleasant sound to her ears. What he said on the other hand, completely astounded her. "Where am I Breton? Where is Alduin?"

X-X-X-X-DOVAHKIIN-X-X-X-X

The brown-eyed Breton girl was not a threat, he decided after seeing the puzzled and somewhat distressed look on her face. She didn't seem to understand the questions he had asked, but he put that down to a combination of confusion and shock at having him dropped into her lap. It was evident that he was for the moment, safe, and that he was among people who were as least neutral to his reputation and status, as the Breton dabbed at his brow gently with the hem of her long robe. He did not recognise the surroundings at all or the sigils or symbols on any of the wall hangings, but then again he had hardly been in every stone building in Tamriel, so it wasn't likely he would know where he was by a glance.

He stared down at himself, caked in sweat and a fine sheet of white dust, almost like that used in the Imperial Arena, and snorted gently to himself. He must look a right mess and no mistake. Even Mjoll would find this to be funny, humourless saint as she was. Looking to the two others in the room with he and the Breton, he found himself looking at a short Nord male and another Breton female who were staring at him with open eye filled with fear, which irritated him fiercely. He ignored their faces and scanned them for any clue as to identity their allegiance. The robes vaguely resembled those worn by College Mages, though the second Breton girl, a red head, wore different coloured robes which depicted the rays of a sun on the chest and neck which reminded the Redguard of those worn by the murderers of Uriel Septim, the Mythic Dawn. They were now extinct and the designs were noticeably different, but the rising sun motif was familiar.

If he was among the company of Mehrunes Dagon's favoured then something was very amiss in the world judging by his continued breathing, as somehow he doubted that anyone who served the Lord of Destruction would want anything but his death, no matter his ownership of the Razor. After all, Dagon was also the Lord of Change, so following the status quo did not really apply to his followers, especially not when compared with those of Jyggalag or maybe even Malacath. He locked eyes with the Breton girl again and asked again more slowly. "Where am I? Where is Alduin? Where is the corpse of the Worldeater?"

The girl suddenly frowned as if annoyed and then did something he did not expect after being questioned so seriously. She pouted and said in childish voice, "I asked you first." The frightened gasps of her companions went ignored as he raised a single dark eyebrow. It turned into a small smile and then a slow chuckle. He got up and pulled her to her feet as well, wiping off his sweaty palms on the yellow gold cloth belt that formed part of his armour, which he and every other member of the Elinhir militia was given as a gift by the Alik'r chieftain Ologayo following the successful defense of the city against the Thalmor during the invasion. Twenty years later at the age of thirty four, the Dragonborn still carried it as a symbol of defiance, of remembrance and of pride in what he and his kinsfolk had done to defend their homes from the Altmer. The people of Hammerfell knew what it meant and visibly straightened in his presence, a sign of pride in their own kin rather than respect for him, as it should be.

It was with this thought the Dragonborn gave the Breton girl a genuine smile and a wry smirk rolled into one. His voice was still rough from lack of use. "Have you never seen a Redguard before, Breton? Have the fumes of your alchemy addled your brain?"

Whatever answer Yseabal had been expecting, that was not it. "Have I ever seen a what?"

The tall man frowned. "A Redguard? The people of Hammerfell? You know those dark-skinned folk, the race of Men who bloodied the Aldmeri Dominion while the Empire capitulated in the face of adversity despite the insult to their founder and god? As you well know Breton, I am a Redguard. Now if you would be so kind, what am I doing here and where is that bastard lizard Alduin? I know he's dead, but where now are his bones? I wish to make a gift of his carcass to Queen Elisif. Tullius will not deny her a present as princely such as that surely?" The girl's eyes widened at the mention of the word 'dragon' so he guessed she couldn't be a complete dunderhead. Maybe she was merely surprised hopefully, or just a little bit of a dunderhead at worst?

"Dragons? Don't talk rubbish, they're only stories." The other Breton girl decided to speak up, both mildly surprising and irritating the Redguard. He glared at her a little in a mix of annoyance, insult and though he would never admit it, a little bit of shock and shook his head with a weary sigh.

"Tiber Septim must be rolling in his tomb, Nine Divines preserve me. Your 'stories' Breton are the talk and curse of an entire kingdom, the suffering and pain of all civilised peoples and were a threat to the existence of Nirn as we know it to be. The Worldeater burned Helgen and his compatriots have attacked towns from Solitude to Riften. Their arrival provided the catalyst for the Empire to win the civil war in Skyrim and take the fight to the Aldmeri Dominion and topple the power of the Thalmor, with or without Emperor Titus. There were the battles in Whiterun, at the Forts Dunstad, Greenwall and Amol, and the battle for Windhelm itself. The traitor Jarl Ulfric was captured and conscripted to fight the Thalmor and the murdering butcher Galmar was put to the blade by your truly on the field of battle, is none of this ringing any bells?" The three stared at him in bemusement and confusion. He sighed and shook his head. "Never mind. What is the date? How long was I unconscious for? Where is the High Queen?"

The Nord boy looked sufficiently cowed, despite the fact that he was not the first target of the Redguard's chastisement. "The sixth day of Wintermarch 9:30. Queen Anora resides in Denerim with King Cailan."

He looked incredulously at the boy. "I understand little to none of what you just said save the time, and I think I'll act as if I think I know what you're saying about this ... Anora character. And what kind of name is Cailan? Even Torygg sounds better. Though he was a good man was Torygg, he made into Sovngarde after all, had to be good to join Shor's company."

The young man looked even more perplexed and was blushing as if scolded. Which he was but not by anyone who was an obvious authority figure to him. "I didn't say anything about the time ser. It's the 30th year of the Dragon Age. The Ninth Age."

The Dragonborn suddenly felt his heart go very cold and something drop in his stomach. It was the same feeling he had had upon hearing the news that Taneth had fallen from within during the Aldmeri invasion. "Ninth ... Age? It was the Fourth Era last I heard." He sat back down again heavily. "I don't recognise your calendar system, but it's clear something is completely amiss. Who are you whelp?" He looked at the Nord, who was now fidgeting under the suspicious gaze.

"J-Jowan. My name is Jowan. I am an apprentice here at the Tower." The Redguard nodded slowly and gestured to the two Breton girls.

"And your two lady friends here? Do they not receive an introduction?"

At Jowan's blush, the brown haired Breton gave a superior smirk that made the Redguard smile. Here was a friendship worth protecting it seemed. "The 'lady friends' can speak for themselves, good ser. My name is Yseabal and this is Lily, one of the Chantry initiates here at the Tower." The red head Breton gave a shy smile and wave that had the Dragonborn mentally feel less irritated at her. The bull-headedness of youth was not far behind him after all, no matter what Aela had ever said.

The Redguard frowned and rubbed his chin which was thickly stubbled. "The Chantry? The only Chantry I've heard of was that of the Snow Elves, and they're all but extinct. Not very likely to be the same thing, but explanations can wait until later. Where in the name of Akatosh am I and where is this ... Tower exactly?"

It was Yseabal who answered, despite wanting to ask. "You're in the basement store rooms of the Tower of Magi, home to the Ferelden Circle of Magi."

The Dragonborn smirked. "Hidden from the Thalmor's prying eyes eh? Good thinking. Mages you say? Very good! After Savos Aren passed away I was made Archmage in Winterhold. Then again, by the looks on your faces you've never heard of the College just like I've never heard of your Circle or this Ferelden either. I feel like I'm meeting Serana again for the first time, save that now the roles are reversed somewhat. Hmph, I take it you've never heard of the Thalmor?" At the shaking of heads in the negative he sighed, a little more at ease than before. "Good. Damned Altmer. No self-respecting Man is ever going to revere Phynaster, never mind worship him over Talos. Any Nord could have told me that, except you maybe," he pointed to Jowan, who somehow felt mildly insulted.

The newly named Yseabal shrugged. "I can't say I've ever heard of an Archmage before, but if you can do magic, you're safe with us. Two apostates to be and an initiate who's fallen into disrepute and darkness with them." Lily giggled a little, but also looked mildly put out by this comment, which the Dragonborn filed away for future reference. "First Enchanter Irving is our leader, if you can call him that, he's the most experienced of any of our number and the oldest by quite a margin." The smile on Jowan's face confirmed the Redguard's thoughts, but shook his head at the old man's title.

"An enchanter looking after conjurers and illusionists? What in Magnus' name were they thinking? Any man can enchant, but it takes strength of will and experience to teach Transmutation or summon a Dremora, not that enchanting ever prevented anyone with perseverance from learning the craft of course. What did the gods ever do to you though that you don't believe in them, or does apostate mean something else here? No, wait, we've been here for far too long, but not without an answer to the most important question here. You, whelp? Do you know a man called Sam Guevenne?"

Jowan shook his head, a sense of dread filling him. The Redguard as he called himself smiled a wry grin. "If you are not an acolyte of the Prince, then just what were you doing down in a secluded basement with two such lovely nubile initiates as these two? For shame whelp, for shame!"

The look of abject horror on the blushing apprentice's pale face made him laugh out loud, pleasantly surprised with the extent of the effect, especially on Lily. Evidently, the Circle mages were not as bawdy as the Companions, but then again it did seem that mages were a little more uptight than any band of adventurers. The Elinhir battlemages were certainly far more serious than any member of the militiamen. Yseabal was actually smiling. "As much as I disagree with tall and witty here as to our motivations and his casting aspersions on our character and respective chastities, we need to get out of here, with the phylactery or not." Jowan noticeably swallowed, making the Redguard frown.

His voice was gentle but firm as he inquired of the obviously upset young Nord, "What's a phylactery whelp?"

The young man's pale face registered shock before descending into a depressed state that the Redguard had only seen on a select few. Lokir of Rorikstead as he ran from the headsman's block. Sinding the werewolf as he sat dejected in the Falkreath Barracks jail cells. Tova Shatter-Shield when he asked her for the key to Hjerim to search for traces of the Butcher. It was still a jarring sight for the Redguard to see what he could see in the eyes of these people. It was the grim nature of someone who had nothing to lose and little to live for. In the eyes of one as young as Jowan, it was downright frightening.

"The phylactery is a device containing a Circle mage's blood," the Dragonborn's face froze still, "which allows the Chantry's templars to track the mage down should they manage to escape from the Tower." Jowan was a little wary of the snarl that appeared, contorted and angry on the Redguard's face. Yseabal swallowed as the slits returned to those shockingly blue eyes as a little bit of the dragon soul asserted itself in anger at the young Nord's confession.

"What do you mean 'escape' whelp? Who are these Templar bastards who keep you prisoner here?" The voice was clear in murderous tone and vocalisation, making the three apprentices freeze, never having experienced such obvious killing intent before. The Redguard almost seemed to realise his mistake subconsciously as he seemed to calm down into a cold, burning anger which made Jowan feel just as nervous.

"T-The C-Chantry's soldiers. T-They lock up mages away from their families so that they can't corrupt others around them. Templars can neutralise a mage's powers... w-we were trying to get to my phylactery so Lily and I could escape from the Tower. After all, I love her." At the tender look between the two, Yseabal coughed and gave Jowan a meaningful look, snapping the lovestruck Nord out of his stupor, returning him to his sombre state. "But now the bookcase is blocking the way and none of us are strong enough to budge it..." he trailed off as the Redguard seethed.

"By Malacath." He needed to out get of this prison. A mage prison no less! He had vowed to put a stop to such suffering when he took up a stave against the Thalmor Justicar assigned to Elinhir following the White-Gold Concordat. Thyrallis Nivenor, one hundred and six years old from Firsthold in the Summerset Isles. Responsible for the massacre of the Talos commune in Water's Edge near Leyawiin and the imprisonment and personal torture of the non-Altmer children who his soldiers had spared. The Redguard had come across him overseeing the beating of a ten year old girl with a metal wire flail. The stave had been snatched from the attending mage's hands in an instant and the full power of the flames unleashed with great anger and glee in causing the death of such a monster.

The Redguard pushed himself up off the floor and faced the bookcase with his face set in a determination unlike any other. "If the way to your liberation is blocked Jowan, then I will make one for us!" He waved the novices out of the path. "Stand clear." He inhaled and then exhaled. He inhaled and let loose with an ear-splitting roar, **"FUS RO DAH!"**

Whatever Ysabel was expecting to happen when the Redguard shouted at the bookcase, a wide and fast blue-coloured shockwave that ripped through the bookcase was not it. She was also most definitely not expecting it to smash a man-sized hole in the wall, sending stone bricks the size of fireballs ricocheting down the passageway, smashing into the next rooms. The three of them stood gaping at the sight of the sheer power he displayed. This was not any magic they had ever read of or seen. This was old. Very old. They could feel a legacy here as the Redguard visibly breathed to calm himself down once again.

The tall dark man turned back to them with the same deep frown on his face. "I will walk with you, my apprentices. I will help you retrieve every phylactery in the building and destroy them. Then afterwards, should any man of your templars stand in our way of leaving, I will destroy them with the wrath of the men of old. They will know fear before they pass on to whatever afterlife awaits such debased men. I will send them to Sithis myself. On this you have my solemn oath. My name is Reman Amir and as general of the Hammerfell expeditionary forces I charge myself to your aid and the utter, complete destruction of your enemies. In the name of Talos, this I swear to you."

Yseabal Amell didn't understand a lot of what he had said or what he had made reference to, but for the first time that day, she felt totally at ease. They would escape today, and the templars would pay dearly for their interference, in their lives and in those of every mage in the Tower. The Redguard would bring them victory and after that? Freedom would be theirs.


End file.
